


Organizing Chaos and Creating Eternities

by docboredom



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, UH TO QUOTE BEN THIS IS A "SAD SUNG GALAXY" FIC SO ENJOY THAT, Working Through Feelings via Synthesizer, anyways get a load of this sad fuck, don't sad empath-open inside, god i fucking hate ao3 additional tags jesus christ, shit's fucking impossible to navigate thanks to supernatural fans, skibbidi-baum-oum-bAOW, this is gonna go in that tag now and I gotta laugh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29480709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docboredom/pseuds/docboredom
Summary: "For a few minutes in the rainI stood glowing with ideasOf what I might try to convey with this musicAt that moment, my mind flashing like a blade"-Sometimes, surprisingly, Sung just needs to be alone.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Organizing Chaos and Creating Eternities

“Sung, Sung, Sung.”

It comes in threes some days. Most days, really. Three different voices. Three different versions. Three different lives and experiences and parts and sums. His life is a compass star, with him not at the center, but rather at one cardinal point, constantly changing depending on where and when and how they all are. They wheel around like stars themselves. Him and Meouch and Havve and Phobos. And gods, _gods_ , some days it’s nothing, it’s _manageable_. It's here and then it's gone. Easy shit like “where’d you put this thing?” and “are we practicing today?” and “do you want to watch something else?” 

But then there’s other days.

Other questions.

Other “Sung, Sung, Sung”’s.

“Sung” said with sharpness. “Sung” said with disappointment. “Sung” said with force.

And he can only take so much.

People have told him before- enemies and strangers and lovers and those he holds oh-so-close, that he doesn’t have a face meant for frowning. That he wasn’t someone who was made for hurt. For grief and raging and visceral, all encompassing hatred. For bitterness. All those weighty "human" things that could drag other (lesser?) things and beings down, down, down. And maybe, just maybe, before the Ennui, before the Mara, before the onslaught of what some people called boredom... that'd be pretty close to the truth.

But then everything turned to dust and agony and he tried to kill himself.

For the longest time he didn’t even _know_. He didn’t remember. He couldn’t recall his childhood at all. It all got piled into Havve in a last ditch effort to absolve himself of his failures and filled the robot up. But they eventually found their way back over the years.

The feelings well before the memories.

His and everyone’s.

“Sung, Sung, Sung.”

It’s one of those days where he’s fucked up. He knows because he _knows_ , and because everybody tells him he’s fucked up in their own way, their own tone. It was that all too familiar three-peat of “Sung, Sung, Sung” said one by one. Meouch’s like a too quick bullet. Havve’s a cold and frozen tundra night. Phobos’s a door slammed shut. Apologies will come eventually. They always do when it comes to the four of them operating as the bonded entity that they are.

But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt in that exact moment.

It always fucking does.

Hell, it does more than hurt, if he's being honest with himself. It scrapes his insides completely raw. And in those moments he has two choices…

Acceptance or going off the gods damned deep end and blowing the fuck up.

 _Everyone_ has those choices, he knows. Gods, he knows probably more than anyone. Knows that everyone hurts and aches and never wants to be wrong. But it’s worse when he can parse the reasoning and sift through all the idiosyncrasies and get into their damned head and thought processes. I see you. I know you. His core pulses as it makes sense of it all. Empathy is simultaneously a gift and a curse, he thinks as they leave him. He loves it. He hates it. He doesn’t know who he would be without it defining him.

But there's also a third choice on a day like today. A strange and rare one.

Blocking it all out.

Walls up, pylon on, door locked, breath exhaled out. The endless distant sprawl of space and sea and souls and stars goes quiet in a way that’s simultaneously blissful and terrifying as he goes through the process. Things like him weren’t meant to seclude themselves, and so he hurries to his bed and, without really thinking of what he's doing or why he's doing it, he pulls his synth out. Something to fill the silence, he tells himself as he stares at it, to keep the bad thoughts out.

"Sung." He says as he presses the first key and lets it swell into infinity. "Sung, Sung, Sung."

It feels good to make it his own, even if it's just for a little while. His own name on his own tongue spoken in star song over an endlessly haunting wave of pure _sound_. Not the way Meouch said it, or Havve, or Phobos. Rather the way he wanted and needed it. The way he had almost begged for. Gentle and patient. Warm and gliding. Filled with love. He says it again and closes his eye as he does it, letting it spool out of him at a leisurely pace. Sung, Sung, Sung. Twenty something and a million. Golden skinned and made of stars. Sung, Sung, Sung. Not some omniscient and benevolent god. Just a man. Just a person. Just...

Sung, Sung, Sung.

And a song that isn’t ugly but isn’t really lovely either is shooting up between his fingers as the first of the tears fall- eternally shapeless and raw. Heart song. Soul song. Sung's song. He laughs then, miserable and wet but still genuine, and let's his hands come up, allowing it to go on and on and on. Layers of piano and the roar of the ocean and electronic thrumming bound into one. A part of him that nobody else could ever have and that would be gone the moment he hit the right button on his keyboard.

He lets it fill him up though behind his closed door in his impossible room on the same bed he's had since he was thirteen, just reimagined.

And he cries and he cries.

Until he feels truly whole.

**Author's Note:**

> to those who need this and those who don't  
> you know who you are  
> or maybe you don't
> 
> i hope this reaches you  
> i hope this digs something out
> 
> it's been a while  
> and i don't have excuses  
> but i've missed this so much
> 
> and though i may lose the thread  
> lose the spark  
> it can't be taken  
> can't be buried  
> can't be silenced  
> can't be stopped
> 
> anyways im done being dramatic stream the microphones in 2020 you fucks next time ill write a fucking fic about ryuji or yusuke since im on a persona 5 kick lmfao


End file.
